Corpse in a Gilded Cage by Robert Barnard Read Free Book Online

that’s not something Elsie and I want to get used to. As I said to Lillywaite: we’re not having spies around the house. Listening to every word we say. Watching. What the Butler Saw and all that. Not that there’s much of that for him to see these days, eh, Elsie?’
    The Earl let out a bellow of laughter, but his daughter flinched and pursed her lips, as she often did at the uninhibited animality of the children in her class. The Earl resumed his discourse.
    â€˜Anyway, even if we’d wanted to— which we don’t, and never will—there’s all them death duties to be paid off. My noble family couldn’t go in for any of the regular dodges this time. The only sensible thing is: get what they’ll fetch, pay over what’s got to be paid, and make hay with the rest.’
    His words fell on silence, as various little brains set to the calculation of their interests, the assessing of their positions.
    â€˜The death duties will be phenomenal, of course,’ said Digby, whose brain was quicker by experience at this sort of calculation. ‘But this stuff will fetch, make no mistake.’ He waved his hand towards the picture overthe fireplace above the Earl’s head. ‘That’s a Van Dyke. That alone would fetch three-quarters of a million.’
    â€˜Oh, been pricing it, have you?’ said the Countess nastily.
    â€˜Mum!’ protested Joan. ‘It’s Digby’s job. He is a valuer. Digby just knows these things.’
    â€˜Well, bully for Digby,’ said the Countess. ‘Any Van Dykes come up for sale in Wandsworth and Digby’s the boy to call in.’
    â€˜Mother!’ said the Earl. He turned round and gazed at the picture enclosed within the Gibbons carvings. It was of Sir Rupert Spender, grandfather of the first Earl, who had fought for King and Commonwealth (successively) in the Civil War, and whom a later portrait by Lely showed as one of those hard-faced men who do well out of wars. Here, however, he was in the prime of youth, his hand on the head of a pointer, his slim body clad in a blue velvet suit with lacy collar and cuffs.
    â€˜Three-quarters of a million, just for nancy boy here,’ said the Earl. ‘It makes you think.’
    â€˜Don’t be nasty,’ said Michele. ‘I think he has a look of Trevor.’
    They all looked at Trevor, then at the portrait of Sir Rupert, then back at Trevor. Certainly there was a resemblance: the same fair-brown hair, the same good-looking but slightly pinched face. The resemblance was accentuated by the velveteen jacket and floppy bow-tie that Trevor was wearing, filched from the wardrobe of Evie in the Naughty Nineties.
    â€˜Thank you, Michele,’ said Trevor, enjoying the notice. ‘There’s my reputation gone. Only nancy roles for me from now on.’
    Michele’s remark had brought her to general notice. Joan, who had earlier cast glances of prim disapproval at the thin white shift which was apparently her sole garment, seemed suddenly seized by a desire to play the hostess. Perhaps she was spurred on by the fact that the Countess made no gestures at all in that direction, or perhaps she was just working towards an alliance of the family’s younger members. She leaned forward to the slim girl, and with a condescending smile said:
    â€˜How clever of you to notice . . . er, Michele, is it?’
    â€˜Michele with one I,’ said the girl, turning her hard eyes in Joan’s direction.
    â€˜You must have a genius for faces,’ said Digby, leaning forward in his turn. ‘How did you first meet Trevor?’
    â€˜When he was shoved on top of me, on a bed, with arc lamps behind him,’ said Michele. ‘That way you never forget a face.’ And then, turningto the assembled family, began: ‘About Trevor: we’ve been talking about his career, and—’
    But the Countess was having nothing of this, and heaved her